Consequence
by Dreigiau
Summary: Arriving home after work, Greg takes the time to explain to Sherlock why, exactly, meeting criminals on roofs is a good way to upset John. [OT3: John/Sherlock/Greg]


**AN: **My fill for the first Let's Write Sherlock challenge. The prompt was: _After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…_

* * *

Greg sighed as he closed the front door of 221 Baker Street behind him. One of the windows to flat B was open and he had been able to hear the screech of Sherlock torturing his violin from half way down the road.

Inside the flat the sound was almost ear splitting, and Greg bit down on another sigh. Never one to beat around the bush he crossed the room, tugging the instrument from Sherlock's resisting hands. He placed the violin carefully back in its case before turning back to the detective.

"Move, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, trying to reach around the policeman.

"No. I have a headache and I will not have it made worse by your 'music'." He raised his hands to make the air quotes, lowering them to catch Sherlock's wrists as the detective continued to reach past him. "Where's John?"

"John has spent this entire afternoon being unreasonable." Sherlock wrenched his wrists out of Greg's grip, sweeping past him and into the kitchen to poke at a pile of petri-dishes on the table.

"Sherlock," Greg growled. Sherlock huffed loudly, tossing one of the dishes into the bin before turning back to face Greg.

"John is in the downstairs bedroom. Where he has been for the past two hours and seventeen minutes. He spent the first thirty seven minutes muttering, the following sixty one reading, and the last thirty nine doing some sort of exercise. He spent the first nineteen minutes after our arrival back at the flat glaring at the wall and shouting at me." Sherlock had crossed his arms as he spoke. Greg stepped across the kitchen, crossing his own arms as he stopped in front of Sherlock.

"I don't suppose you bothered to listen to what he had to say?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow when Sherlock sneered down at him.

"Entirely irrelevant," Sherlock snapped, side stepping Greg once again. "I am going to the morgue."

"No, no you're not," Greg told him. "You are going to stay here while me and John and have a discussion about this. So help me God, Sherlock, if I have to handcuff you to the bed I will." Greg planted himself firmly in front of the front door, keeping an eye on Sherlock as his gaze darted to the window. He was fairly sure that the detective would not make a bid for freedom through it, but he was ready to tackle him should he try.

"I would be out of them in under a minute," Sherlock muttered, almost sullen.

"In which case I will sit on you to keep you still," Greg threatened. "So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to go and talk to John. You will spend the next half an hour considering why, exactly, John and I may be concerned about you meeting up with criminals on roofs without telling us where you're going. Then you're going to come and join us, and we're going to talk about this like reasonable adults." Sherlock did not exactly crumple, but he softened a little, taking a half step towards Greg.

"You are also upset. Why?" Sherlock made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "No harm came to any of us, the suspect was apprehended." He gestured wildly as he spoke, and Greg reached out to catch his hands.

"Of course we're upset. You and roofs don't have the best track record, yeah? It was bad enough for me to see you up there, I can't imagine what it was like for John. He's had to see that before and it didn't end so well."

Sherlock crumpled at the mention of his suicide. He dropped his forehead to Greg's shoulder and seemed to lose a foot and a half in height as he pressed himself against the policeman. Greg released his hands and took some measure of pity on him, wrapping him in a brief hug.

"Daft sod," Greg muttered fondly, pressing a soft kiss to the mass of curls pressed against the side of his face. "Half an hour, then come through and see us. You can have your violin back, if you play something proper." Sherlock nodded, his hair tickling Greg's face as he did so. Greg pulled back, releasing Sherlock and pressing another gentle kiss to the taller man's forehead.

The bedroom seemed empty when Greg stepped inside, and he glanced around until a movement at the end of the bed caught his eye. He stepped over cautiously, unsure of how he would be received when the doctor was so angry with Sherlock.

John was lying at the end of the bed, his feet hooked under it as he pulled himself up into crunches before relaxing back to the floor. He smiled tightly as Greg came into view, continuing his movements without pause. Greg dropped himself onto the bed, lying on his front with his head at the foot. John rose up towards him, their faces almost touching, before falling away again. Greg considered saying something, but he knew that exercise was often John's way of coping with frustration. He lay still and silent instead.

They continued in this way for a few long minutes, nothing breaking the silence save for Greg's even breathing and John's more laboured breaths. Eventually John stilled, lying back against the carpet and looking up at Greg.

"Your boyfriend is a twat," John commented.

"Which one?" Greg asked innocently, grinning when John shot him a glare. "How come he's only my boyfriend when he's causing trouble?" He sobered when John's glare did not lessen. "Hey, come on." He sat up, reaching for John's hands and tugging the doctor up to sit beside him. "Sherlock was an idiot today, that's hardly new."

"I thought he might- God, I know he promised not to do it again, but I could see what happened and-" John stumbled to a halt, leaning heavily against Greg's side. "I'm so angry with him, and he doesn't even realise what he did," he muttered venomously.

Violin music floated into the room, and Greg glanced towards the door. They had fifteen of their thirty minutes remaining, and Sherlock had only just begun to play again. Greg recognised the melody. It was the first song Sherlock had played when his violin had come out of storage after his return. A harsh, deep piece which vibrated through Greg's chest and brought the sting of tears to the back of his eyes.

"Damn it," John muttered, running a hand over his face. "Fuck."

"Mhmm," Greg hummed his agreement. He leant back against the bed, using his elbows to keep his head and upper body slightly elevated. John curled down beside him, resting his head on the policeman's stomach and closing his eyes. "You have to remember, we've always been aware that he has the emotional maturity of a five year old sometimes."

"It's not like I want an apology," John replied. "I'm hardly expecting a miracle. Just... no more Sherlock on roofs."

"He said you shouted when you got back," Greg commented. John curled closer against him rather than replying, and Greg sat up. He shifted himself up to the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard. The doctor followed him, curling up again with his head in Greg's lap. Greg smiled, running his fingers gently through John's hair.

"I don't want to be the bad guy," John whispered against Greg's shirt.

"Oh bugger that," Greg told him, ruffling John's hair briefly. "He knows what he did wrong. You shouted, I've told him he should try listening when you're angry and he's stopped trying to break the windows with his violin. That's about as balanced as we get, and you know it. C'mon, I told him to give us half an hour, he'll be pointedly not waiting by the door for us to let him in. Go give him a hug or something and I'll get some pasta started for dinner."

John pulled himself up off of Greg's lap, managing a small, rather less strained smile. "Use up the sauce in the fridge?" He suggested.

"Yeah, thought I'd do a pasta bake," Greg replied, slipping off of the bed and heading for the door to the room.

Sherlock was perched on one of the chairs, angled so that he had a view of the bedroom door. He looked away as the door opened, closing his eyes. Greg was not fooled; it was obvious that the detective had been waiting either for the half hour to pass or the door to open, whichever came first. Sherlock's ability to hone his focus down to a single point was impressive, and useful when it came to cases. Applied to his relationships, however, it tended to do nothing more than allow him to work himself up into a tizzy.

Greg let John pass him, gently nudging him towards the other man as he continued to the kitchen. They would likely sort themselves out by the time the pasta was done cooking. Once they were eating (Sherlock would eat, now that the case was finished, that was not up for discussion) they would have to make sure that Sherlock understood what it was that he had done. Greg was fairly sure it was a point that the detective would not forget.


End file.
